


now that we have our dead (what are we going to do with them?)

by TolkienGirl



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Guilt, I love this quasi-sibling rivalry, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, title from Siken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 21:49:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18019085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: "If I had been there, would I have done it?"





	now that we have our dead (what are we going to do with them?)

Findekáno would rather think little—or not at all—of those first days back in his father’s camp, when he was half-certain that they were keeping Russandol as a hostage, and more than half-certain that saying as much to his father would be an unforgivable insult.

Findekáno once found it difficult to hold his tongue, but time and blood are thorough teachers.

He does not accuse his father of ruthless bargaining, then, and though he is loath to leave Russandol’s bedside, he chooses not to be present when the Fëanorians arrive.

Tyelkormo seeks him out anyway.

He goes by Turcafinwë now. Findekáno hates the name, as he hates all their father-names.

He did not quite hate their father, though by rights, he should have.

Tyelkormo is as stalwart and brash as ever, his hair so deeply golden it is turned nearly bronze by the half-light. “Curufinwë and I want to know whether we are to kill you or not.”

Findekáno is often cold now. The ice does that, makes you doubt the heat of your own blood. That, and the shores of Lake Mithrim are frigid.

Findekáno is often cold, but anger burns in him. He knows what Tyelkormo has seen, there in the healers’ tent. A skeleton with more scars than flesh. A face that looks like someone took a hammer to its shape. A once-proud right arm, withered and twisted.

And handless.

Findekáno knows, too, what Tyelkormo has not seen: the cliff.

He asks, with deliberate calm, “For cutting off his hand?”

Tyelkormo’s flickering eyes affirm the question. “If I had been there, would have I done it?”

Findekáno feels his fingers bite deeply into his palms—both his palms. “If you had been there,” he answers, with some of the steady fury that his father once aimed at Fëanáro, “You would have shot him through the heart. You would have offered no prayer to Manwë, as I did, for you would have trusted, as you always do, in your own perfect aim. No eagle would have saved you, and he would be rotting there along with your flawless arrow.”

Tyelkormo looks as he did when he was a boy, and words failed him. He used to raise his fists at such times, but his arms hang at his sides.

Findekáno is not finished. Perhaps he wants a fist in his teeth, perhaps he deserves it. If Russandol cannot deliver it, one of his brothers will do. “But you would not have been there, Tyelkormo. Here you hid in your camps. You and your fearless brothers hid while the enemy tormented him!”

He stops. Tyelkormo’s hand is around his collar. He is strong—his arms are twice as thick as Findekáno’s, and if it is a match of blows alone, Findekáno will be at a disadvantage.

But this is what Tyelkormo has not seen: the cliff, and what happened there. He has not seen the knife sawing in Findekáno’s grip, tears mingling with blood.

He has not seen what his eldest brother looks like when he begs for death at the hands of a friend.

Findekáno bends Tyelkormo’s fingers back, one by one, until his cousin lets go.


End file.
